


The Simple Things

by Padapuppy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Domestic, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-28
Updated: 2013-03-28
Packaged: 2017-12-06 18:14:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/738643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Padapuppy/pseuds/Padapuppy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean never knew what he had, and now that it's gone, he doesn't know what to do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Simple Things

It’s the simple things he misses the most, things Dean never really bothered to pay attention to, things he never had to because he never knew what he was missing. But now, without them, Dean feels lost.

It’s morning, the day unknown to Dean, and he rolls over and rubs the other side of the bed, frowning when the sheets feel cool and smooth to his touch. There’s no gruff voice urging Dean for five more minutes and then smiling against his lips when Dean tries to apologize the one good way he knows how.  
In the bathroom, later, there’s no one yelling at him to stop using all the hot water, but he shuts it off just the same out of habit. No one tells him to pick up his dirty clothes or toss his towel in the hamper, and for the first time in over twenty years, they lie where Dean left them.  
When he gets to the kitchen for breakfast, he doesn’t hear the familiar hums coming from the stove, and for once, there’s only one empty cup sitting near the sink by the time Dean makes his way to the couch.

There are no feet in his lap, no head on his shoulder. Dean’s always hated those things, always claimed that men didn’t cuddle, but without them, Dean’s heart breaks again.  
In the afternoon, since Dean’s dressed—can still hear Castiel’s, “I don’t care if you don’t work today, Dean. You’re not animal. Put on some damn clothes.”—he sits out on the porch looking to his beloved car, something he can do for hours at a time. He moves after a bit and starts washing her down, rubbing over her curves with practiced ease. When no one tells him to come inside for lunch, Dean feels the panic start in yet again.

That evening, Dean’s just finished his supper—too much beer and a side of burger—and there’s no one around to help him wash the dishes. He does them alone.  
When he gets to his bedroom, their bedroom, there’s no warm body waiting in his bed or even sitting in the tub. Dean draws the bath anyway.

The tub is old, cloven like a deer perhaps, but none of that matters. Like every night up until now, Dean sits at the end away from the spout, and he lets his head fall to the edge of the tub. There’s no mop of tousled black hair to touch anymore, no back to scrub, and no napes to kiss.The ceramic is cool to his skin, and he can’t see past the tears anymore.  
Going to bed is the hardest, but he’s already had a night’s practice with that. Castiel’s been in the ground for twenty-seven hours now, and all Dean can think about before his alcohol induced slumber takes over is that, from now on, he will no longer hear the familiar and wanted and often ignored ‘goodnight, beloved’ from Castiel.

These things that Dean has grown so used to will never happen again. He’ll never hear that voice, never get in another shouting match so loud that the neighbors call the police, and Dean will never, not ever have the chance to pick up the pieces, to kiss away every hurtful word they spewed out at each other. They were all simple, most things Dean never cared for, but somehow, for some reason or another, Dean has never felt more scared. And that truly is the saddest thing of them all.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments, I think they're awesome.


End file.
